


Do You Dream?

by romeoandjulietyouwish



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dreaming, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Orbiting Human Circus (Of the Air) AU, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is Julian, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is Coco, you don't need to know what that is to understand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romeoandjulietyouwish/pseuds/romeoandjulietyouwish
Summary: Peter has never had a family, at least that he can remember. A friendly old man seeks to remedy that. But Peter can't quite seem to keep his feet on the ground.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Firstly, the Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based on the podcast The Orbiting Human Circus. There's one note about this AU: there are some points where the story switches from real life to a story taking place in Peter's imagination, it should be fairly obvious.
> 
> I've had this AU sitting in my brain for months so I'm super pumped to finally share it with you guys!
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story develops more in my head.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

It’s eight o’clock, or rather near it. But in the dark enclosed space, a janitor’s closet, it’s hard to tell. It’s dark, the walls are made of cold metal and the heat comes from a small stove in the corner, the embers still burning bright. In the opposite corner of the room, a small figure lies curled up on a beaten-up old mattress, barely the thickness of a book. His back is to the door, and he is fast asleep, clutching tight to the scrap of fabric he calls a blanket. 

In his head he’s not in this closet, but rather hiding in the wings of a broadcast ballroom, watching the audience file into the grand room to watch the live broadcast of a radio variety show. But even in his dreams, he’s not the center of attention. He will not be performing on the radio show, he will not be in the audience, in his dreams he isn’t even allowed backstage. In his dreams he is still a janitor, sneaking into the ballroom to catch a glimpse of a world he will never be part of. 

“Hey!” The chief stagehand pokes his shoulder and gives him a withering look, telling him to get off the stage in a thick french accent.

He wakes up rather abruptly after that, once again in his cold janitor’s closet. He checks the clock hanging on the wall, lit by the glow from the stove, and with a sigh he pulls himself up, it’s time to go to work. He quietly picks himself up and tiptoes across the small closet to where his cleaning supplies are, piled against the wall. The walls themselves are covered with glistening saw blades, reflecting what little light the room has. 

But he doesn’t mind his living space or hard work. You see, he works at none other than the Eiffel Tower, spending his days cleaning the steps, the railings, and the telescopes at the observatory. When he begins his work, the sun is just starting to set, casting a warm orange glow over the bustling city, just beginning to light up for the night. He doesn’t mind night so much, when he’s just waking up walking up the hundreds of steps doesn’t seem that bad. Especially with the sunset overhead. Plus all the stars. In cities like Paris, the stars are usually hidden, but when he climbs to the very top of the tower, he can see them poking through the deep blue sky. 

He has worked at the Eiffel Tower for the better part of three years. Before that...he doesn’t remember. He simply woke up one day in the janitor’s closet with only a single memory to go by. And his name: Peter. 

He was so frightened when he woke up that his boss, Mr. Hogan, thought he was mute. Mr. Hogan checks on him often, but it’s predictable. Peter always knows when Mr. Hogan will come to see him; every second Tuesday, seven pm. He dreads those days, it’s not that he doesn’t like the man, but when one is used to being alone it’s much easier to stay that way than to invite a stranger into one’s life.

But the dread he feels on the arrival of Mr. Hogan is nothing compared to the terror the night watchman brings. His movements never follow a pattern, never follow a clock, or a routine. His footsteps are loud and heavy as if with every step he is trying to stomp on a bug. Peter has only one memory of before waking up in the closet, but the sound of the pounding footsteps remind him of a long-forgotten memory. It makes him think of slammed doors and smashed bottles. He doesn’t know what these memories are, but they all have one thing in common. Fear.

Now, as Peter is collecting his cleaning supplies to begin his work, he heard the dreaded footsteps, echoing on the metal steps. His eyes flash hurriedly to the door and in a split second, he dives back to his bed, drawing his blanket over his head, shaking. 

The footsteps are closer now, right outside the door. The night watchman is on the other side of the door! 

The janitor cannot breathe, cannot seem to close his eyes. Suddenly, the whole closet lights up! The night watchman shines his flashlight under the door, flooding the closet with harsh light. Peter is shaking, his eyes plastered on the door. The light tapping of metal against metal tells him that the night watchman has touched the handle of the door. There is no lock; Peter’s heart stills in his chest. He is going to open the door! But, like a beast saving his prey for later, he does not. At least for now.

Peter hears the footsteps retreat back down the steps. “Breathe,” he tells himself, and finally he can. He lays there a moment longer before forcing himself to his feet. He has work to do.

With the night watchman gone, hopefully for the rest of the night, Peter collects his materials and creeps towards the door. He closes his eyes and presses his ear to the door, listening closely. Hearing nothing, he turns the handle, wincing at the creak of metal. But bit by bit he pushes the door open until he has enough room to get out. Casting a worried glance below him, to where the night watchman’s booth (the ticket booth during the day) is, Peter scampers up the stairs, not unlike the mice he so often feeds. 

He makes his way up to the very top. When he first started cleaning the tower he would start at the bottom and work his way up and by the morning he would be nearly dead on his feet. He has long since figured out that if he works his way down, he’ll be back in the closet by dawn and he’ll make the exerting trek up the stairs while he still has energy. 

“Look at the sky,” he tells himself dreamily. “It’s...beautiful.” He’s right; the sky above him is pink and orange, streaked with yellow. There’s not a cloud to be seen in all of Paris. 

Once Peter reaches the top of the tower, he takes a moment to breathe. It’s not quite summer yet, only a month short, but the nights are still warm. Not unbearably, like the summer months, but just...warm, pleasantly so.

While he works he likes to dream; dream about a radio broadcast coming from the top of the Eiffel Tower, about being brave enough to simply walk on stage and talk to the millions of people tuned in, about a world that exists only in his head. Where he’s not alone.

He imagines he’s not standing above all of Paris, but rather on the catwalk of a live radio broadcast. He hangs his legs through the rails and leans against the bars. Below him, the audience chatters loudly, turning around in their seats to talk to their neighbors. Peter watches stagehands push brooms across the stage, some last minute preparations for the show about to begin any moment. The ballroom is ready, ready for the hundreds of thousands of people to listen in to hear talking fleas, hypnotists, and birds that can sing with the strength of an orchestra.

From his perch, he can see someone beckon the stage hands off of the stage and into the wings. Peter smiles brightly as the huge ‘ON AIR!’ sign lights up above the stage. The crowd cheers and Peter taps his fingers against the railing excitedly. Just as the host takes to the stage and begins the show he feels a nudge on his shoulder. 

Peter gasps, whirling around, sure that he is about to be caught. This is not the first time he’s snuck into the broadcast ballroom, but he thought no one would find him, once the broadcast started he didn’t think anyone would be up here. But when he turns around it’s not a stagehand, but rather a man. A kind looking man, with greying hair and soft laugh lines. But every time Peter tries to focus on his face, he can’t seem to get a clear picture, like his face is blurred. 

“Can I sit with you, kid?” The man asks. Peter nods blankly and moves a bit to the left, allowing space for the man to sit beside him. The man sits down, his knees popping. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he leans close to Peter, “I’m not supposed to be here either.” 

Peter smiles, “You’re not?” 

“Nope,” he waves his hand at the audience down below, “I was kicked out of that ballroom more times than I can count.”

He tips his head to the side curiously, “Why?” 

The man shrugs, “I was never quite a rule follower. I kept playing pranks on the host.” Peter looks down at where the host is interviewing what appears to be a chorus of crickets and laughs lightly. “I glued his dressing room door shut, replaced his tea with brandy, put green hair dye in his hair spray. You name it and I’ve probably done it.”

  
Peter giggles, covering his mouth to not make too much noise, “Really?” The man nods, sharing the boy’s laughter. 

“Why aren’t you allowed here?” The man asks him.

“I’m the janitor,” Peter says simply. “They don't really save a seat for me.” He turns to the man, “But I just love the show so I sneak in every week to listen.” The man smiles like he really cares about what Peter is saying. 

“How’d you sneak in?” The man asks. 

“The heating ducts,” Peter says. “I’m small enough to crawl through them.” 

“That’s smart, kid,” The man taps the railing in a strange pattern, almost rhythmic. 

They fall into silence, looking down at the stage. The audience roars with laughter as a hypnotist casts a spell on an unfortunate patron. Peter leans on the railing to get a better look and with a snap, suddenly he’s back on the tower, looking out at the city below. 

He looks around, gathering his surroundings, and finds he’s only a few steps away from his closet. Peter takes a deep breath and listens. He doesn’t hear a peep from the night watchman’s booth so he creeps down the steps on his toes, running the last few feet to his closet, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Peter sighs in relief, falling to his knees on his bed. Now that he can focus, he finds his legs ache from walking the steps and his biceps are tense from cleaning. So with a relieved sigh, Peter falls back into his dreams. 


	2. Secondly, the Night Watchman

Peter takes a deep breath. He’s made a decision. He doesn’t want to be afraid of the night watchman anymore. He wants to feel safe in his janitor’s closet, not waiting to hear thundering footsteps that throw him into his memories.

So he’s created a plan, once the sun goes down he’s going to sneak down to the ticket booth, find the night watchman in his lair, spy on him when he begins his rounds, follow and learn the method to his madness, the secret of his rounds so that he might avoid them for once and for all. 

It’s not a bad plan. 

So Peter takes a deep breath and opens the door quietly, striding into the night meekly, hunching his shoulders and lifting his heels to make as little noise as possible. He climbs down the stairs, not even stopping to enjoy the beautiful Paris sunset. Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, in front of him is the ticket booth, the warm glow of the office light spilling out through the windows.

The night watchman is already here. 

Peter stands on the last step of the tower, he hasn’t set foot outside the Tower in years, he’s always been too afraid to. But here he is, he takes another long breath and steps down, planting both feet on the solid ground. 

He lets out a light laugh, unable to stop the smile from crossing his face. 

But the moment is quickly squashed by the door of the ticket booth creaking open. Thank goodness Peter is good at hiding, he quickly ducks into the shadows as the night watchman strides out of the booth, flashlight in hand. Peter’s heart thrums in his chest, he squeezes his lungs tight to keep his breathing from giving him away. 

As the nightwatchman passes him, Peter slowly creeps out from the shadows, straying a few meters behind the night watchman as he climbs back up the stairs. 

Peter follows the night watchman at a far distance, only seeing his dark figure in the shadows of the night. He follows him up to the observation deck, past the elevator and the commissary. Peter keeps track of the movements, carefully memorizing them. 

Then the night watchman comes to a halt in front of the janitor’s closet. Peter holds his breath, watching from a dark corner. The night watchman takes a long breath, as if stealing himself for an ordeal, and knocks three times on the door. After a moment or two of silence, the night watchman turns the handle and pushes it open. 

Peter has to stifle a gasp. What if he had been in there? What if the night watchman had burst into his room like that? Would he have hurt him? Peter’s heart is racing, he has to hold his breath to keep from making noise. The night watchman looks around the small closet for a few seconds before leaving, closing the door behind him. 

As the night watchman begins his descent back to the ticket booth, the janitor takes a slow breath, lifts himself onto his toes, and follows once more. 

He watches as the night watchman ducks back into the ticket booth. Peter makes a split-second decision and runs quietly to the side of the booth, hiding under the window. His chest rises and falls quickly. He could be caught at any moment. Every instinct in Peter’s body is telling him to run, to hide. But Peter doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. He wants to see the man who has terrified him for years. So Peter, crouched under the ticket booth window, slowly peeks his head up to look through. 

“What?” Peter whispers to himself, ducking back down almost immediately, leaning against the ticket booth in shock. 

What he had seen was not the man he had imagined. For starters, he’s about five foot four, maybe a little taller, but stooped over the papers on his desk it’s hard to tell. The night watchman is...old. Well, not old old, but older than Peter had thought, about 50. 

Peter scampers away from the ticket booth, back into the closet. Back in his janitor’s closet, he lies in his cot, looking up at the metal ceiling. It was a big night for him. He actually went outside! And he faced his boogeyman, and he turned into something…quite unexpected.

The next night, Peter finds himself drawn toward the ticket booth. He had rather enjoyed himself last night, so once again he follows the night watchman on his route. And Peter begins to understand why he had such difficulty tracking his movements because it seems the night watchman himself doesn’t plan his movements. 

At the end of his round, the night watchman retires to the ticket booth, the warm glow casting golden shadows across the dark tower. He plays music, soft French music that Peter has never heard before. 

And the janitor watches him from outside and listens.

The following night, Peter does the same thing. But something is different about the night watchman this time, instead of merely walking about the tower, he seems driven by something. Peter knows what it is, him. 

It takes all of Peter’s skill to stay hidden from the night watchman now. As the silent game of cat and mouse continues, Peter starts to behave strangely. He’s not hiding as well. He lets his shoes and sleeves peek out from the shadows. 

The janitor is letting the night watchman catch him. Then the night watchman’s eyes meet Peter’s. 

“Hello,” the night watchman says softly, seeing Peter for the first time. “My name’s Tony, who are you?” 

“P-Peter,” the boy says softly. 

The man smiles kindly, not at all like the monster Peter pictured in his mind. He has wrinkles spreading from his eyes and the corners of his mouth, “It’s nice to meet you, Peter. What brought you to the Eiffel Tower?” Peter freezes, he doesn’t know how to answer this question, not in the slightest. Tony must be able to tell it was the wrong question because he opens his mouth to say something else, but Peter cuts in. 

“I came, uh, to go to the ballroom at the top,” Peter says. He’s never told anyone of his daydreams, but when faced with such a difficult question, Peter falls back on the one thing he knows. His dreams. 

“There’s no ballroom,” Tony counters, frowning curiously. 

Peter shakes his head, “There is.” 

And so Peter began to tell Tony a story, a story that would continue every night they met. Peter entranced Tony with a world of talking crickets, opportunistic radio show hosts, and a friendly old man he met on the catwalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make my day and keep me writing :D
> 
> Tumblr- @romeoandjulietyouwish

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos make my day :D
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr @romeoandjulietyouwish I love answering your questions about my writing and talking to new people so don't be shy!


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